Page 39 of Deadly Alliance
"What the fuck was that?" he whispers roughly.
"I was playing the perfect wife," I say defensively, wrapping my arms around my waist. "I thought you'd be pleased."
"Pleased?" Cassio repeats, letting out a dark, breathless laugh. He reaches out, his large hands gripping my waist, pulling me flush against his solid chest. "You publicly humiliated your father. You defended my violence. You looked at Dario Lombardi like he was a cockroach you wanted to step on."
"He insulted you," I point out, tilting my head back to meet his intense, burning gaze. "My father, I mean. He was trying to undermine you in front of Lombardi. If he does that, the Russians win. I just... I leveled the playing field."
"You leveled the entire goddamn room," Cassio corrects, his thumbs stroking the bare skin of my waist where the silk dips low. "I told you to sit there and look pretty. I didn't expect you to pull a knife and gut your own bloodline for me."
"I am a Genovese, Cassio," I remind him, a sharp, genuine smile touching my lips. "We know how to fight. We just usually do it with words instead of guns."
Cassio stares at me. The obsession in his eyes is profound.
"You aren't a Genovese anymore, Noemi," he vows, his voice drops to a harsh, beautiful rasp. “You are a Vellutini."
"Are we going to argue about my last name, or are you going to pour me a drink?" I banter back a challenge.
Cassio’s eyes flash with dark amusement. The man who terrifies an entire city, actually smiles. A real, genuine, breathtaking smile that completely transforms his ruthless face.
"I am going to pour you a drink," he murmurs, leaning down so his lips brush against mine. "And then I am going to take you upstairs, strip this ridiculous, distracting dress off your body, and show you exactly how grateful I am for your loyalty."
He kisses me. It is a deep, intoxicating, collaborative kiss. I open my mouth to him willingly; my hands slide up the lapels of his tuxedo to wrap around the back of his neck.
15
Cassio
I fucking hate these galas.
I stand at the edge of the sprawling, gilded ballroom of the Lombardi estate with a crystal tumbler of scotch in my hand. Tonight is Don Lombardi’s sixtieth birthday. In any other circumstance, I would have sent Matteo with an expensive bottle of wine and a hollow excuse.
But we are not in normal circumstances. The Bratva are still circling the port like vultures, waiting for a crack in our armor. Don Salvatore ordered all the Italian families to attend tonight to project an impenetrable, united front.
So here I am, standing in enemy territory, playing nice with men I would rather drown in the San Marco River.
But the politics aren't what have my blood running hot tonight. It’s the woman standing thirty feet away from me.
Noemi.
She is speaking with the wives of two Capos, a flute of champagne held delicately in her hand. She is wearing a dress that should be illegal. It’s deep crimson, clinging to every single curve of her body like a second skin, with a slit up the thigh that flashes a tantalizing glimpse of pale leg every time she shifts her weight. Her dark hair is tumbling down her back in loose, rich waves. She looks like a queen holding court.
Every man in this ballroom has looked at her tonight. And every single time a pair of eyes lingers on her a second too long, my hand instinctively drifts toward the tailored line of my tuxedo jacket, right where my 1911 rests.
My possessiveness over her has mutated from a territorial instinct into a full-blown, psychopathic sickness. I haven't been able to breathe properly unless she is within my line of sight.
"Don Cassio."
A soft, breathy voice pulls my attention away from my wife.
I turn my head slowly. Standing beside me, holding a glass of sparkling water, is Lucia Genovese.
My father-in-law’s precious, perfect golden child. The daughter Orlando originally promised me.
Lucia is wearing a pale blue dress that makes her look like a porcelain doll. Her blonde-highlighted hair is perfectly styled, her makeup is soft and innocent. She is exactly the kind of docile, obedient mafia princess that men in our world kill to possess.
I look at her, and I feel absolutely nothing. No spark. No heat. She is a glass of tepid tap water compared to the burning, intoxicating whiskey of my wife.
"Lucia," I reply, my tone is flat, offering zero encouragement.
